


Repetition

by Anonymous



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Forced Pregnancy, Incest, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1720787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Behave, young master Stark,</em> his nanny says in her funny accent. <em>You don't want Odin Allfather to think you Lokison. The sons of Loki never prosper. The sons of Loki, their Wyrd is pain.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> Avengerkink prompt: At some point in the past, Loki raped Howard and impregnated him with his magic. That was the reason Howard was so cold toward Tony. During the confrontation in the Stark Tower, Loki forced himself on Tony and also made Tony pregnant with his child.
> 
> Loki knew Tony was his son all along.

"I want it out of me," Tony says flatly.

"I – Mr. Stark, I'm not sure you're quite grasping the situation –"

"I. Want. It. Gone. That's all I need to know about 'the situation', and it's all _you_ should care about."

"Mr. Stark, given – given the, uh, circumstances –"

"You can have the fucking thing, study it, take it apart, whatever, I don't care what you do with it so long as it isn't _in me any more_ –"

Doctor Taylor looks near tears, he notes distantly beneath the cold burning anger filling his head. He wants to feel sorry for her – she's pretty new, and though SHIELD gave her every scrap of paper containing information about Tony and his medical conditions they could find, nothing could have properly prepared anyone for this – but he can't find space for anything except his own miserable rage. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry – that's not the problem at all – we don't know _how_."

"Do what every fucking pro-lifer with a placard thinks you do and just cut it out wholesale," Tony says but he can feel something cold tightening in his gut.

"We can't," Dr Taylor says, and she sounds truly sorry for him. "Non-invasive tests we can perform just fine, but anything that could be even remotely perceived as hostile to the fe-"

"The parasite," Tony snaps.

"- it. Anything that could be perceived as hostile to it is just... stopped."

"Fucking magic," Tony hisses through his teeth. He stares down at his hands, fingers digging into his knees, remembers laughter in his ear, words he didn't understand winding around him, settling into his skin.

"We think – we're pretty sure it won't affect the delivery? Or – or if we still can't – then it must... provide an alternative."

He hates himself for imagining it, he hates himself for being forced to contemplate going through with this, and he hates the thought of what going through with it means.

"This thing'll kill me," he tells her and thinks it might just be hope talking.

(To be honest he's always been surprised to live so long in the first place. He used to get told every hospital visit just how _lucky_ he was.)

Her eyes rest on the circle of light in the center of his chest, and he knows she's thinking about the same problems he is – the shrapnel, his reduced lung capacity, the way his organs will be further compressed as the – thing – grows, the lingering effects of the palladium poisoning that nearly killed him, a lifetime of alcohol abuse...

Even if he were a woman it would be a goddamn miracle if he could carry the thing inside him to term but he has a feeling miscarriage isn't an option.

"I'm sorry," she says again and he stands, yanking his jacket back on.

"Fat lot of good that does me," he says, slamming the door behind him as he goes.

* * *

"Actually, I'm planning to threaten you."

( _wake up_ )

"Threaten me?" Loki says, eyes glittering with some secret amusement. His tongue darts across his lips like a snake tasting air and Tony tightens his grip on his glass.

In the back of his head something tells him the situation has slipped out of his grasp, if he ever had control of it in the first place.

"My little mortal –" _what the fucking fuck_ "– greater than you have tried and failed."

He keeps a steady, measured pace as he walks towards him, and Tony feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Something chants _get out, get out, get out,_ but Tony Stark has never listened to that little voice other people call common sense and he stands his ground.

( _no more_ )

Loki smiles, pleased with his stupid courage it seems. The skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, disarmingly affable.

"I do like your defiance," he says, drags his gaze over Tony's body from head to toe, leaving him feeling vaguely dirty. "It resembles your father greatly."

"Fuck me," Tony blurts before he can stop himself. " _Really?_ " He flings his glass to one side so he can properly throw his hands up theatrically – distract, dissemble, escape – "Fucking Norse gods who haven't even set foot on this planet in the last five hundred years are comparing me to my father now? Seriously?"

( _stop stop stop_ )

Loki's smile drops its pretense, becomes full of teeth. "Fuck you," he repeats, tasting the words. "What an idea. And you offer so nicely. I think I shall."

"What," Tony says, the tower crumbling beneath his feet, Loki's words twisting into chains that wrap around his limbs –

He wakes up shaking, curled into himself like a child, one hand pressed tight over the arc reactor, lit through and filled with the shadow-shapes of his bones.

Something flutters in his belly, a monster making itself comfortable beneath his skin.

* * *

When Tony is seven he asks his mother why Howard can't stand to look at him for long.

She twists her wedding ring uncomfortably around on her finger, clearly struggling with what to say – he thinks she's trying to think of a kind way to tell him he is an utter disappointment – before hugging him. Maria doesn't care for being touched any more than his father does – Tony seriously wonders how they ever managed to produce him at all – so he takes advantage like the greedy little thing he is and leans into her embrace.

"I'm sorry," she says. "His past haunts him. It's not fair that he takes it out on you, but it's the way it is."

"Was it the war?" Tony asks and she shakes her head and says she doesn't know.

"How can you not know?"

She twists her wedding ring round and round and round. "It's not my story," she says, and Tony doesn't understand because she's his mother and Howard is his father and for that to happen their stories had to meet at some point, be shared to make a married whole.

"Mom?" Tony says, and her eyes are pained for a brief moment before they turn shuttered. She pulls on her best socialite face and kisses his cheek.

"I have to go now, Tony, or I'll be late," she says.

Tony watches her go with something leaden in his chest.

* * *

"My beautiful boy," Loki murmurs, his breath fanning hotly across Tony's face, and he is everywhere, above him, surrounding him, _inside him_ – unavoidable, inexorable, like waves on the shore, every surge an attempt to drag Tony under.

Tony can feel his wrists creak under Loki's one-handed grip, pulled above his head, and the tips of his fingers are wet with blood from splintered nails dragged uselessly down skin and armor. He tries to pretend he can't hear his own whimpering gasps or feel the way his legs ache, spread wide to the point of pain, tries to pretend he's nothing; he's not even there, just a body on the floor

Whatever he's heard about disassociation, Tony isn't capable of it. There isn't a single moment he isn't aware of what Loki is doing to him, can't feel _everything_.

Loki's eyes are unearthly in the light of the arc reactor, pupils wide and black as void - he dips his head and presses his open mouth to its surface and they shrink to pinpricks - crooning between panting breaths what a brilliant bright heart Tony has made for himself, something of the Tesseract in its glow.

Tony starts to believe this will never end, it will go on forever; Loki is eternal, and Tony doesn't have the strength left to scream.

* * *

"Read that," Howard says, shoving a tattered paperback of 'Popular Norse Myths' at Tony.

Tony wrinkles his nose at it, glancing uncertainly at his father. "Why?"

"Because I tell you to," Howard says. He looks for a second as if he's struggling to say more, but Tony can see the exact moment his discomfort with Tony gets the better of him and he has to turn away. "Just read it," he says.

Tony does, cover to cover, but whatever it is his father wants him to see, it eludes him.

* * *

Loki's fingers curl into him and he smiles as he kneels between Tony's thighs, blood staining his teeth. He draws his fingers out, shining wetly, and Tony lies still and waits, resigned to one last humiliation, thinking Loki means to have him lick them clean or maybe that he'll smear the proof of Tony's degradation across his face - both seem like the kind of dominance play to appeal to Loki's nature.

He doesn't. He paints symbols low on Tony's belly instead, murmurs words Tony can _feel_ sinking into his skin, shuddering and twisting inside him, making space for themselves. It's almost pleasant, the shiver of power working through him; like a cold breeze it sharpens his wits, cuts through the haze that's descended in the aftermath –

Something sinks its teeth into him, sets his nerves alight. His back arches and he flails and howls and through it all Loki pets his hair.

* * *

Whenever their paths cross Thor's gaze drops inevitably to Tony's growing abdomen, eyes full of bewildered hurt. His hands twitch at his sides, as if he wants to reach out and touch – god of fertility, Tony remembers – but he is careful to maintain his distance.

He tells Tony while drunk that he is not surprised his brother would 'be enamored of him', that when he looks at Tony he sometimes sees his brother in mortal-skin, dark, quick-witted, determinedly independent, so very clever.

( _so good, my beautiful boy, you are so good_ )

The next day, still morose and clumsy with mead, he breaks Tony's wrist grabbing at it when he finds Tony trying to use a kitchen knife on his stomach despite knowing it won't work. He apologizes whole-heartedly, putting him in Bruce's care while he bellows for the Bifrost, determined to bring back healing from Asgard to fix his mistake.

Tony thinks he just wants to escape - he can't have forgotten the magic on Tony (inside Tony) will take care of any harm to its host.

He really can't blame Thor - if Tony could run from this he would.

( _what will you make of yourself from these ashes, hmm?_ )

Bruce can no longer stay in the same room as Tony without taking deep, steady gulps of air the entire time and his eyes are almost always stained emerald green. Tony hates that Loki has managed to take that from him too - the easy camaraderie between them that might have turned into a proper friendship with time, the sort of thing Tony has heard about, where people just click upon meeting. He's never had a friend like that before, brilliant though Rhodey and Pepper and Happy are. He supposes the idea was selfish anyway. He's trying not to be though, he can't demand Bruce stay around him any longer than he has to when just looking at Tony now hurts the control he feels he needs so badly.

It would be over-dramatic to say he hates Loki more for that than... the other things he's done, but it's high up on the list anyway. Tony prizes the few people he can trick into liking him.

It's only five minutes after Thor's leaving before Bruce has to retreat, so it's Natasha who wraps Tony's wrist in ice, eyes dark and somber. Clint jokes about getting him the good drugs if Thor doesn't get back quickly enough and Tony doesn't remind him that he'd only bring them back up. He pretends he can't see the sickened relief in Clint's eyes every time he looks at Tony, sees a permanent reminder he's dodged a bullet he hadn't even known was possible.

(Tony prepared floors for them in his tower, but he never expected any of them to stay when the battle was over – he knew better. Now they have, he struggles not to hate them for it.)

* * *

He can feel the thing inside him moving as it grows, as it saps his strength to feed itself, takes his body over.

He imagines a wolf clawing at his insides, trying to chew its way out.

He imagines a snake lashing out with strike after strike, venom-dripping fangs piercing him, bite, bite, bite.

He imagines something almost-human, one half withered and dead, the way he feels, the way he wishes he was.

Worst of all is when he imagines something soft and pink and small with dark hair and blue eyes, nothing more than human.

* * *

(" _Behave_ , young master Stark," his nanny says in her funny accent. "You don't want Odin Allfather to think you Lokison. The sons of Loki never prosper. The sons of Loki, their Wyrd is pain.")

* * *

He barricades himself in the workshop the closer and closer it gets to the end, communicates solely through telephone calls and notes slid under the door.

The nurse he hired months ago – handsomely paid and under so many non-disclosure agreements she sometimes wonders if she's allowed to speak at all – is the only person he allows in.

He curses her, he curses it, he curses every deity he knows of one blighted pantheon and one god above all.

He manages to find laughter from somewhere when she tells him it's a boy. He has the son and heir he always planned to have someday, but never under such circumstances.

"Mr. Stark?" She says, holding the swaddled child close to her, where it shrieks and screams and makes full use of its healthy lungs. "Would you – would you like to see him?"

"No," he tells her.

"He looks just like you," she says.

"I don't care," he tells her.

"I have to have a name for him," she persists.

"Bring the thing here," he says impatiently and stares at it for a long moment. At the boy. It's a boy, and it has his dark hair and stubborn expression – kid's disappointed with the world _already_ , he thinks; it took him at least ten years – and he can already tell those angry eyes are going to become his shade of brown. He wonders if it - he - knows just how much he resented him, if that is why he looks so displeased with the world he's found himself in.

"Call him Anthony," Howard says and turns away. "Now take him away, please, Maria. I don't want to look at him any more."

"Yes, Mr. Stark," she says quietly. She steps over a half-crumpled piece of paper as she goes, a finely detailed woodcut of a serpent curling around the world, biting its own tail.


End file.
